The rain slicked the fire escape

The rain slicked the fire escape,

a dark ladder against the brick.

It gleamed, a promise

I never took.

I watched them across the way,

two old hands fumbling bags,

then one reached up,

using the rusted iron rung

to steady a potted plant.

A whole other life,

balanced on a thing

meant for falling.

The rust stains told a story

I'd forgotten, a story of utility

and slow decay.